A family holiday – anywhere the kids demand. Last year, I wanted us all to go to Egypt and my daughter said, “No, we’re going to go to Grenada.” So we did.

A Vivienne Westwood & Burberry two-piece suit I bought for a press night. At the time I was: “Yeah, of course I’m going to be a 30-inch waist for the rest of my life.” Now the trousers don’t fit.

A painting by Tamara de Lempicka.

A snazzy coffee machine that grinds beans and steams milk.

Last week, because of an ear infection: I cried my eyes out when they put a big injection into my arse.

When I was a teenager, I worked in a vegetable shop on Saturdays, and the guy had a rotation of 10 pretty teenagers working for him and was really sleazy. I only went twice because the second time he made me go up to his flat above the shop and clean his toilet, and he was watching me.

My problem with clothes. I’ve got an issue, haven’t I? I’m not a fella in a band who can turn up in his T-shirt and jeans. I’ve got the whole drama of what I’m going to wear: the hair, the makeup. All that preening and pruning that adds to the stress. I have begun to hate that perfectionist in me.

I recently had a dramatic fall on stage in Hungary. It was a massive stage – I was miles away from the audience – and I didn’t expect there to be two monitors in the middle of it. I went completely arse over tit and landed on my chin. First, I felt shock, pain, embarrassment, and then I felt lucky that I didn’t break any teeth or bite through my tongue. I asked for an ice pack for my chin, got up and finished the set.

The fact that I smoke.